


A New Tomorrow

by bluewind



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Dancer AU, Gen, Mentions of Melchior and Herr Stiefel, Panic Attack, billy elliot au, but its moritz centric, moritz is billy, this doesnt exactly follow billy elliot (it is Not as fun) but u can tell the parts that are from it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewind/pseuds/bluewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it was because he hadn't been able to remember this combination since he left class; perhaps it was the fact that he should have been seeing a private tutor and not spending his papa's money on dance classes; perhaps it was because his papa found out; perhaps it was one of the billions of little things going wrong in his life. No matter the reason, Moritz Stiefel found himself on the cold floor of his room, pouting at his own reflection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> So I just got home from Billy Elliot rehearsals..... and then I started thinking about Moritz Stiefel.. .

_Balancé, pas de bourrée, pirouette, and_ \- and...   another pirouette? No no, it was... a sashay. A sashay, then a pirouette. Or, wait, maybe- _fuck._

Messy brown locks that his papa constantly said were growing too long are pushed back in frustration. A pair of light eyes meet him in his bedroom mirror, and for fuck's sake, his hands are starting to shake. _Nothing's wrong,_ he can tell himself all he wants but for some reason or another, the tears still spring into his eyes. He knows there's nothing to cry over, it's nothing more than a hiccup in a combination, but his brain tells him otherwise. Whatever chemicals have long since gone haywire now  _insisting_ that if he can't get it right now then _fuck it,_ what good is he anyway?

Perhaps it's because he hadn't been able to remember this combination since he left class; perhaps it's the fact that he should have been seeing a private tutor and not spending his papa's money on _dance classes;_ perhaps it's because his papa found out; perhaps it's one of the billions of little things going wrong in his life. No matter the reason, Moritz Stiefel finds himself on the cold floor of his room, pouting at his own reflection. He figures if he stares himself down long enough - gives himself the look that Papa so often does - and tells himself to act like a man, he will.

But the longer he looks, the heavier weight seems to press on his chest, the tighter his throat constricts like there are hands wrapped around it, the more his eyes water until he can't look at himself. A sob escapes his lips, the sound crashing around him like the roaring ocean, echoing until it has pulled him under and drowned him. Bruised knees are pulled close to his chest, a shuddering gasp taken before the boy rips off his dance shoes, throws them across the room like they burned him. 

_Stop it. Stop stop stop._ He can't stop shaking if he tried and God, is he trying. He grinds his teeth together but sharp, shaking breaths are sucked in anyway, and he goes on crying. Crying and crying and crying, because Papa is right: he needs to toughen up.

Crying and crying and crying, because Papa is right: he needs to toughen up.

And goddamn it, he doesn't _want_ to toughen up, he wants to be a _dancer._ Yet with every forgotten step, Moritz is reminded that he's not good enough. He's not man enough to be a boxer; he's not smart enough to be any good at school; he's not talented enough to dance. 

He decides with finality that he doesn't want to be a dancer; he wants to be _good_ _enough_.

Somehow he lets himself think that he is good enough for dance. With praise from the dance teacher and the way the girls look at him, he let himself feel some pride in his dance. When they told him he had natural talent, he believed them. He thought that perhaps he was even good enough for his papa to approve. Caught up in feeling wanted, he'd forgotten that he was a **boy,**  that boys don't dance, and that boys who aren't good at a single thing in the world  _certainly_ don't dance. 

Even Melchior, who Moritz had seen wearing a _skirt,_ said that **ballet** was "fucking weird." (There was a whole nother spiel about accepting one's self, but that's the bit Moritz remembers). 

And they were all right. With this realization, blunt fingernails dig into pale skin, as if that dull pain will numb the ache in his heart. Through the cloudy sight of teary eyes, Moritz spots his shoes on the floor across from him. His body tenses, breathing picking up in speed with his heart, as he stares them down. He could _take them now, throw them away._ Maybe he could make his papa proud for once. Burn the shoes, tell Frau Muller to fuck herself, and walk home with his chin up like a strong boy. 

As trembling hands reaching for the shoes, he decides for sure that he's going to do it. 

Cool fingers grasp the slippers, the teen weakly pushing himself to his feet. The instant he took them in his hands, his heart rate began to normalize, tears began to dry; knowing _why_ that happened nearly brought him to tears all over again. Standing, he takes a deep breath, preparing himself to follow through with the plan, no matter how badly he didn't want to. It was like ripping off a band-aid: all at once, no thinking about it.

He stops at his reflection, taking a moment to observe himself. His hair is messy, growing too long. His eyes are red and cheeks streaked with tears. He tilts his chin up, squares his shoulders like a strong boy; a boy his papa would be proud of. Blue eyes wander to the pair of dance shoes that are held even tighter when he catches sight of them. 

As he watches himself step back into the shoes, he decides he doesn't know what he wants.

_Balancé, pas de bourrée, pirouette-_

**Author's Note:**

> im considering making this a multi-chap fic oh no


End file.
